


hope it gives you hell

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Breakup, Breakup Fic, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon, T for Frequent Coarse Language, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Hunter's wedding ring ended up at the bottom of the ocean. T for Frequent Coarse Language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hope it gives you hell

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have nothing against Bobbi Morse, this is Hunter's heartbreak talking.

 

She ran off.

In the middle of the night, she ran off. Took the thumb drive with her and disappeared. Left the money. (Is that all she thought he wanted?)

She ran off like a bloody coward. Didn’t even have the guts to say goodbye, or look him in the face when she left her wedding ring on her bedside table for him to find when he woke. Didn’t even have the guts to leave a note.

She ran off without a trace, that was the hardest part. He had all these questions, all this hurt and _rage,_ and nowhere to direct it. Fortunately, it didn’t really hit him while he was still in the hotel room – that would have been expensive. It waited until he was in the park, walking past an ice-cream stand, and some kid ordered the exact same weird combination of chocolate banana marshmallow that Bobbi had, the last time round. Why did he keep letting her do this?

“Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the attendant.

“No.” Hunter shook his head, a little dazed. “Sorry.”

He bit his lip, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he all but stormed away. Consciously, in his bickering mind that picked up every irritation, he wondered if he’d ever be able to eat icecream again without associating it with her – and her departure. Underneath that, the rising current of hurt and rage begin to whisper.

 _(Fuck you, Bobbi Morse.)_  

-

He skipped on work the next day. Waste of bloody time anyway. And honestly, if he had to deal with one more entitled hipster demanding that their almond milk be hand-strained, in this state, he might kill somebody. For real.

(“Damn it, Bob, how come I have to be the barista and you get to be the krav maga instructor? If I don’t punch someone soon I’ll go mad. Especially working customer service.”

“Next time I’ll sign up to Burger King, will that make you happy?”

“Does that mean free burgers?” he’d asked at the time.)

 _Fuck you Bobbi Morse._ There never was a Next Time with her.

-

He counted the money. At least there was that. A lot of that, in fact.

He gave Bobbi’s half to a Veterans’ service. Not like he’d been counting on it – or being able to carry it - anyway, and he knew some people that could use it. (And he had known, once, a few more).

The rest, he packed into a duffel bag. He called his contact, and tried to sound as threatening as possible when he informed them that the transport had to be moved up, and that it was only for one.

“Your partner already took the transport offer,” they replied. “The deal has been fulfilled. Price has gone up, too.”

 _Fuck you Bobbi Morse._  

Wearily, Hunter requested that they take him somewhere different. Anywhere. Preferably the cheapest anywhere they could get him to – or somewhere with good alcohol – or both.

-

Hours later, he sat, huddled over his duffel bag full of money – and, not that he would admit it, his increasingly queasy stomach – muttering to himself.

“A fishing boat.”

_Fuck you Bobbi Morse._

“Of all bloody things.”

_Fuck you Bobbi Morse._

“The bloody smell.”

_Fuck you Bobbi Morse._

“I’m gonna be sick.”

_Fuck you Bobbi Morse._

“Hey, English,” the fisherman greeted. “You okay over there?”

Hunter ground his teeth together. He wanted to vent, but not to the (irritatingly) friendly (stupid) face he was going to probably spend the next few weeks with, probably offering him stories about The Old Country or some ridiculous thing. But then the fisherman raised a fist, bearing an old bottle of scotch - gin – something alcoholic and brown.

“You want some help with your land legs?” the fisherman offered, apparently by way of explanation. “Or with something else?”

The fisherman eyed Hunter knowingly, but let him take the bottle. Hunter smiled bitterly as he took a swig.

“Something else,” he conceded.

The fisherman gestured for him to drink again.

-

“…an’ then – AND. THEN. She goes and finishes the martini. Like nothing ever happened!” Hunter laughed, raising his hands to imitate a pose of innocence. “Look, officer, they were like that when I got here.”

The fisherman joined in his laughter.

“She sounds like quite a catch.”

“Ah!” Hunter jabbed a finger. “Fishing pun! Drink!”

They both drunk, and laughed.

“But what a woman!” the fisherman cheered. “No wonder you’re so gone on her.”

And just like that, it all came back. Hunter’s fist clenched around the neck of his bottle of beer – which they’d moved onto once they’d run out of rum. In the dim light of the lantern, he spotted the sparkle of his wedding ring. He ground his teeth together.

 _Fuck you Bobbi Morse._  

He wrenched the ring off his finger, and staggered out of his seat. The fisherman stood – curious, or trying to make sure he didn’t jump overboard, Hunter did not know or care. He raised the ring to the sky, looking through it, back at the city. Where they had lived, shared an apartment, loved each other. Even if most of it had been a ruse, he’d always believed they’d really loved each other.

He fell for that one every time.

_“FUCK. YOU. BOBBI. MORSE!”_

He hollered at the sky, lobbing the ring as far out to sea as he could manage. Tears strained his voice but between alcohol and heartbreak he was in a potent state of not-caring.

 _“FUCK YOU, BOB! FUCK YOU! AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON! I HOPE YOU’RE FUCKING HAPPY!”_  

_I hope you’re happy._

(Every. Time.)

He wiped at his face, unsure whether the shouting session was over. As he watched where the ring had hit the surface, and no extraordinary event happened to return it, he slowly sunk to his knees.

(Was that the grief or the alcohol? He grabbed at the railings, either way.)

As the ring sunk down to the bottom of the ocean, he alternated between undistinguishable cries of rage, curses, and tears. Every breakup they’d ever had came screaming back for its chance to rip his heart apart. They hadn’t hurt this much, before. This time, he’d really believed they could manage it.

_Fuck you Bobbi Morse._


End file.
